


the gang does a pasta scam

by golden_geese



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Other, also this is not a guide for pasta, and you dont need to let it sit, bad pasta science, if anything put it in the fridge for fucks sake, please don't exploit pasta enthusiasts for money irl, sensory overload situation, you dont add the flour on top of the egg ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 15:52:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16478477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_geese/pseuds/golden_geese
Summary: ghosts! lies! pasta! fake twins! real twins! sensory overload…… panic attacks………. self-isolation from loved ones…. this fic has it all.





	the gang does a pasta scam

Housewives and trendy young couples start making their way into Paddy’s-- the scheme is in motion. The pub is a-clatter with footsteps, jackets coming off, anticipatory smalltalk, and a few burly regulars, looking out of place among the newcomers.

Dee unties and re-ties her apron for maybe the seven hundredth time.

“Stop,” Dennis huffs. “You keep doing that-- it looks unprofessional. It looks like you don’t do this all the time.”

“Okay, well, Charlie sewed the strap on uneven, or something, I’m trying to fix it,” she says tightly. “I don’t get why we couldn’t just buy premade fucking aprons from an apron store.”

“They had to be green, you know that, you bitch. Seeing the color green makes people want to spend more money,” he whisper-yells back, keeping his voice down for the sake of the guests, who are starting to find their seats. His own apron doesn’t seem crooked, but the cheap fabric is scratchy. Trying to be sneaky since he just got mad at Dee for adjusting her apron, Dennis tries to get the neck strap under the collar of his shirt so it won’t chafe at his skin anymore.

“Shut up, you guys,” Mac says, itching at his fake mustache, which looks a little ridiculous with his normal stubble. “We gotta sell it. Stop fighting.” He puts a melamine cheese board down on the table-- Dennis scoffs.

“That’s not a cutting board, you idiot. That’s a cheese plate. You can’t cut on that. You’ll ruin it.”

“Who cares?” Mac asks. “It’s from Walmart, dude. It was like three dollars. It’s just for looks.”

“It’ll look ridiculous if we’re using a cheese platter as a cutting board,” Dennis insists.

Mac takes a deep breath. Rubs at the bridge of his nose. Glances toward Charlie, who’s just coming back in through the front door. “Is Frank doing his part?”

“Yeah, man, we’re good,” Charlie says, giving Mac a sloppy thumbs-up, his unbuttoned jacket sleeve bouncing around. “But I think you mean uncle Giuseppe. Uncle Giovanni isn’t here yet. But his wig’s ready in the drunk of Dennis’ car.”

Dennis closes his eyes for a second. The twins gambit is completely unnecessary, probably won’t be convincing, and nobody likes the idea other than Frank-- but he wouldn’t shut up about it, so Charlie convinced the gang to let him do it. Dennis can’t help but think this scheme is starting to get away from them. 

“Okay. Yeah. Good. We can do this, guys. Just commit to your characters and if shit starts to go wrong improvise,” Mac says. Bossy, Dennis thinks. Always bossy.

“We gotta start, guys, we’re on a strict timeline,” Charlie whispers urgently. He starts backing toward the office to do his part.

“Okay,” Dennis says, pushing his hair back. He clears his throat before stepping up to the demonstration table. “May I have everyone’s attention?”

It takes a second, but the chatter subsides. Everyone starts to take their seats.

“Beautiful,” Dennis says, since he read that people apparently respond well to positivity and enthusiasm and he has to keep these idiots as engaged as possible. “Good afternoon. Thank you so much for travelling all the way to South Philly to join us for this pasta demonstration today. My name is Marco Romano-- this is my cousin Antonio Romano and his wife Sarah Romano. We’re the descendants of an ancient Italian family who had been in Florence for hundreds of years before our grandparents Mario and Sofia came to New England after World War II. Ever since then, our family’s legacy for lovingly-crafted authentic Italian cuisine has been flourishing here in Philadelphia. You met our uncle Giuseppe outside on your way in-- what a character, huh? He’s collecting your generous donations today, which will allow for us to hit the ground running on our upcoming Romano family restaurant to honor our grandparents who recently passed away. It’s just what they would have wanted, huh Tony?” he says, trying to keep his tone as earnest as possible.

“I bet they’re looking down on us and smiling right now, Marco,” Mac says with a cheesy grin.

“Alright. This one’s for you, nonna.”

A few people in the audience make “awww” noises, letting Dennis know he’s doing his job well. He can hear Charlie clattering around the vents above the pub; the noise makes him flinch a little, but he gets back into character quickly.

“Uh, Tony? You want to get this show on the road?”

“I was born to make pasta,” Mac says unconvincingly. The stiff fake mustache moves unnaturally as he speaks.

“And I was born to marry into an Italian family,” Dee jokes loudly. It doesn’t land. Dennis isn’t even sure what she’s going for-- she was the one to insist on playing Mac’s wife, since she’s sick of only ever being your sister, Dennis. She cracks the eggs into the awaiting plastic bowl, though, moving on quickly.

“You’re gonna want to use three eggs,” Mac starts explaining. “Crack them into a bowl, beat ‘em around a little with a fork, and then toss in two cups of semolina flour and a pinch of salt.”

Charlie starts clattering around in the vents louder. He must have something metallic, based on the sounds he’s making-- maybe a hammer or a screwdriver or a pair of scissors. The scraping twists at Dennis’ eye sockets. He can’t suppress a second, more violent cringe. He’d told Charlie not to use anything extra to make noise. Told him it was unrealistic for ghosts to be scraping shit with tools.

A few of the patrons look up toward the source of the sound. It’s working, at least.

“Uh-- what’s that sound, Tony?” Dee asks. 

“I don’t know,” Mac says. “Let’s just ignore it and keep going. Sorry, folks. Now we’re going to start slowly incorporating the flour and the eggs together until everything is mixed in. At this point, we need to put some plastic wrap over the top of the bowl and let it sit for ten minutes. While we wait for that, our uncle Giuseppe is going to come in and talk about a special offer we’re making for you today.”

“Giovanni,” Dee corrects.

“Giovanni!” Mac says, nodding. “Uh-- Uncle Giovanni, I see you’ve already crept in the back there-- come on up, let’s talk deals.”

Dressed in a shitty toupee, pinstripe pants, and a white button down with suspenders, Frank makes his way to the front. He looks like someone who’s desperately trying to get involved with the mafia and failing miserably, Dennis thinks. He looks ridiculous. And the only change to his disguise between Giuseppe and Giovanni is taking off a fake mustache and putting on a toupee-- which is ridiculous, because identical twins would have similar balding patterns, right?

Charlie clatters around again, metal against metal. God fucking dammit. He realizes his fists are clenched hard. Unclenches them to look more natural.

“I have some really great deals to offer you folks today,” Frank begins, opening up a cardboard box that had been sitting on the floor. “We have three different coupons to choose from to raise more money to open our family restaurant. The first deal is for drinks and an appetizer for two for twenty bucks. The second deal gets you two entrees and a dessert to share for fifty bucks. This type of meal would usually cost upwards of seventy at our fine establishment, so you’re really getting a bargain here. The third one is for four meals with two desserts to share for a hundred bucks. This is high end dining at its best, folks, and this opportunity will allow you to dine like kings for a fraction of the price. One time offer here. Our restaurant is looking at an opening date about a year from now, so these coupons will make wonderful Christmas presents--”

More. Fucking. Scratching. He can feel his pulse behind his ears, angrily reminding him that he _does not do well_ in this kind of situation. He fists his hands again, ignoring the rest of Frank’s spiel. Almost everyone in the audience comes up to buy a coupon or two, at least.

“What’s going on upstairs?” He hears someone ask.

“There is no upstairs,” Mac says, all but running over to the man who spoke.

“On the roof, then,” his wife suggests.

“Nobody’s supposed to be on the roof,” Mac says slowly, knitting his eyebrows. “Sarah, honey, did the owners say anything about having work done on the roof?”

“No, they didn’t,” she says, holding her eyes too wide. “I wonder what’s going on up there.”

Probably able to hear them through the vent, Charlie scrapes harder at the metal. 

His hands don’t feel right. His fingers are stiff. When did it get so goddamn cold in the bar? When did this stupid apron strap get so tight around his neck?

“Marco,” Mac says, turning to Dennis. 

_Don’t you fucking look at me--_

“What?” Dennis says, unable to keep his tone casual.

Mac’s eyes narrow a little. He always fucking knows when something is up. Fuck him. “Nonna just passed away last month,” he says. “Do you think… could it be her? Do you think her spirit is here with us?”

“I don’t know,” he says tightly. His feet carry him away. He doesn’t remember what he was supposed to say.

“Forgive him, folks, he was really close with Nonna and I think her death hit him the hardest,” Mac says sympathetically. Dennis hates it. Hates it. Knows it’s all a game-- hates it anyway. Hates being talked about.

“You know, my mother died several years ago, and ever since then I’ve been hearing signs of her presence,” Dee says.

“Oh, I’ve experienced the same kind of thing,” a lady in the audience says earnestly. Her husband nods. More of the guests are starting to come around, paying attention to the conversation.

“Little things-- footsteps in the hall, or really quiet humming,” Dee continues, nodding. “I bet your grandma is trying to contact you, honey. I bet she’s trying to show you how proud she is of you two for doing this.”

Mac sighs. “I bet you’re right. It’s really too bad, though.”

“What is?” One of the guests ask.

Dennis stops listening. Can’t focus on the conversation anymore. Too busy bracing himself for the next stupid Charlie fake ghost noise--

When it comes, he hears himself laughing a little bit. Not his laugh, though. A weird unfamiliar laugh that reeks with the lilt of cartoon villainy. A few guests look over at him, and Mac does, too-- dude, stop being weird, his face says.

Dennis can still feel his pulse. Hates feeling his pulse. Can hardly focus on anything else. It’s overbearing, it’s mountains, it’s oceans, it’s the tragedy Shakespeare was too afraid to write. It’s none of this. It’s all of this. It’s loud.

“Really? You guys want to pitch in to help the orphans?” He hears Mac ask.

“That’s so generous,” Dee adds. 

“As far as I’m concerned, that makes you part of the Romano family!” Frank says loudly. Dennis wants to punch him. Wants to clobber him over his shiny bald head with the blender or something. 

Charlie scrapes in the vents again.

His shoulders twitch hard, leaning his body toward the floor-- why the fuck is his instinct always to curl up on the floor? “God fucking dammit,” he hears himself mutter.

“Wow, that really is amazing,” Mac says. “Thank you all so much for coming out today and helping our family-- not only with our dream of opening a restaurant to honor our grandparents, but also with our dream of helping those orphans. It’s been enough time, so we can get back to the pasta now, if you’ll all return to your seats.”

Dennis can’t fuck up the scheme. He’s not going to talk, though. He refuses. He’ll just stand there with Mac and Dee and pretend to be interested in what they’re all doing. Frantic, his lungs are, trying to push out of his ribcage, which might as well be laced together with exposed nerves for how it feels--

“Let’s divide this dough into a few balls so it’s easier to put through the pasta maker,” Dee says, picking up the knife. She plops a chunk down on the cheese board. 

“Turn the ball into a rectangle,” Mac explains. “And neatly trim the edges so it’s smooth.”

The knife against the plastic cheese platter. His eardrums might as well be rocks. Those viscous volcano rocks that crumble under pressure and are riddled with wide holes. The dusty red ones. All his organs might as well be those rocks, actually, for a second.

But the sound is over quickly, and Charlie should be done making ghost sounds now, so hopefully things will be alright, he tells himself. He doesn’t believe himself, but he tells himself anyway. His ears are buzzing hard. Or maybe something in the pub is making buzzing noises. It’s hard to tell.

Mac and Dee crank the pasta through the pasta machine. It’s to the point where every noise hurts a little bit-- the ticking of the machine as it cranks, the occasional coughs or mutters or throat-clearings from the crowd, the hum of the heater-- but it’s tolerable, he reminds himself. It’s fine. 

Until Dee goes back to the fucking not-actually-a-cutting board.

He’s going to explode if he hears this one more time. He might explode if he hears this _this_ time. Abruptly he turns, heads into the back office. Shoves the door closed, shoves himself in the desk chair. 

(Mac left his jacket on the chair. Faintly, Dennis can smell it. Smell his cheap cologne and whatever else Mac smells like.) 

He struggles to get out of the itchy green apron. Fights the urge to cover his ears. His heart is cramming its way between his rips now, his head pounding in time with it-- and the buzzing from the fluorescent office light is _not helping_. Clumsily, he reaches over to shut it off. Sits in the dark. Is that kid in first grade again, throwing a tantrum on the floor because of the way the cracked, muffled announcements sound over the dusty old speakers. Is that kid whose irritated mom has to come pick him up.

He realizes the fingernails of his left hand are dug hard into the back of his right hand. Lets go-- still feels the sting in his flesh, in his chest, in his eardrums.

It doesn’t feel like nearly enough time for the demonstration to be over and the people to be gone, but the door opens. His head snaps up, eyes straining against the sudden influx of light. 

“Dude, are you okay?” Mac asks, ripping his fake mustache off.

“Fine,” Dennis snaps.

“Okay, okay-- we made a lot of money, just so you know. I think the ghost grandma bit did really well. Between the donations to come to the cooking class, the orphan donations, and the people who bought coupons-- we made like fifteen hundred bucks.”

_“Great.”_

“What is your deal, man?”

“Just leave me alone,” he demands. “Just fuck off.”

“Uh-- I mean, do you need anything?”

“No, Mac, just fuck off,” he repeats, voice sounding even harder now. He can’t sit still. 

“You got the lights off for a reason, bro?”

_“Fuck. Off._

“Okay,” Mac says, defeated. “Just let me know if you need anything, okay? I’ll be right outside the door.”

Mac leaves. The sounds hurt, but the silence is too much too-- he needs… he needs something. He can’t put his finger on it. Alcohol, maybe. Like five shots. Ten.

No. That isn’t it either.

He puts his forehead to the cool metal of the desk for a moment. Whatever it is, whatever hidden thing would make him feel better-- he doesn’t deserve it, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a request from glennjaminhow on tumblr! follow me at golden-geese and your request can be next :)


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